Mrs
by miss skinny love
Summary: They will tell you this … she was a "frail and wispy woman." But that isn't fair. And when they refer to her … they will call her Mrs Crouch. She will have no name of her own. She will be a mother and a wife, and nothing more. And that … that is not fair. Not at all.


_Mrs_

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 _Notes:_

Written for Round 1 (QLFC) _Never Have I Ever_ [theme: true sacrifice/ motherhood and the role of women (main)/ ignorance]

Team: Kenmare Kestrels

Position: Chaser 2

Prompts:

(dialogue) "Your silence scares me."

(word) homemade

(object) knife

Word-count (excluding notes and title): 1,983

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No extension used

Beta-checked by:

Keela Adoette, Celestial Rosegold and ValkyrieAce

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They will tell you this (if indeed they speak of her at all) … she was a "frail and wispy woman." Frail and wispy. Weak and emotional. But that isn't fair. That's not bloody fair at all. And when they refer to her … they will call her Mrs Crouch. She will have no name of her own. She will be a mother and a wife, and nothing more. And that … _that_ is not fair. Not at all.

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 _She's not sure if she's sleeping or dreaming or dying. All she knows are moments. All she knows is that she's numb. Her feet are tingling and so are her fingers. Everything … just … floats …_

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"Bartemius," she says, "please." She folds her hands over her lap and implores him with her eyes.

"I've told you this already," he says, and the tone is slightly condescending. He fiddles with his robes and snatches up a handful of Floo powder. "I'm a busy man. An important one," he says proudly. "I've plenty of responsibilities."

"Is your son not one of them?" she asks quietly.

He stills. He's facing the fireplace, but his words are for her. "Don't," he says lowly. "Besides, he has his mother. The boy is fine."

"He's not fine." She rises from her chair and reaches out a hand, but Bartemius has already thrown in the powder, already spat out his destination, already spiraled away, away, away, and the last thing she hears is, "You're enough for him, darling," but she's not — so she whispers it — she whispers the words: "I'm not enough."

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He cups her cheek and kisses her — a quick, whiskery peck, but he smells like sandalwood and quality wool, and she has loved him since she was fifteen and she will love him until she is dead and he is too.

"Are you coming to his party tonight?" she asks.

Another kiss to her forehead. That scent she knows so well wafts over her. "Yes, darling."

She beams. She feels the wrinkles around her eyes furrow deeper still. "I'm glad. I'll have Tinkie prepare everything."

"The best for our son," Bartemius agrees, and then he's gone — a busy man, an important one — and she waits a few seconds and then the day begins. Night comes and instead of waiting seconds for him to arrive, as she did for him to leave just that morning, she waits hours.

What's worse is that Barty, her little boy, is staring up at her. "Mum," he says, "I thought you said Father was coming tonight."

She smiles weakly. "He is, don't worry. I'm sure he's running a bit late, is all."

His face crumples. Then he shrieks shrilly and stomps his foot. "I — want — Father!"

"There now," she answers sharply. "You're twelve. Big boys don't behave so poorly."

He glares at her.

In his eyes, she becomes the villain. But this is the way of the world — and the future will bring more glares and more shrieks.

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Except her Barty falls into a state of apathy, almost. For so long. Somewhere along the way, he abruptly falls out of that state. He's happy again. So she's happy, too. She never wondered what _exactly_ had caused that change. She should have. She _should_ have.

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"What?" she asks.

Bartemius looks up. His face has a curious look to it — part devastation and part shock. "Barty — "

She comes alive immediately. "What of him?"

Bartemius says nothing.

She stands up and twists his face until he's looking straight at her. Looking her in the eye.

"He's a Death Eater. Destined for Azkaban."

The sea is in her ears. "What?" falls from her lips.

"He's a Death — "

"No," she says.

Bartemius focuses on her. "Yes," he says.

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"THIS IS YOUR FAULT," she roars. "IF YOU'D HAVE COME HOME ONCE IN A WHILE — "

"IF YOU HAD DISCIPLINED HIM MORE — " he thunders.

"WHAT, BEAT HIM BLOODY — ?" she bit out angrily.

"NO," he shouts, and pants, and grips at his heart, and she feels nothing at the sight of him looking so pained and old and fragile.

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She hates that he still smells of sandalwood and quality wool.

She hates that she still finds comfort in that scent.

This agony she feels is a homemade brew.

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Barty isn't looking at her. His wrists are in shackles, as are his feet. He's covered in a thin layer of grime.

"Barty?" she says, and stretches out a hand.

Her wrist is captured by Bartemius. "Don't," he says levelly.

"He's my son," she hisses.

"He's a Death Eater," he returns.

She tears her hand away from him.

"Mrs Crouch." Humbugg makes his way towards her. "Why don't you have a seat? The trial is starting."

She sends a last look to Barty. He looks up. Her lips twist. Suddenly, her boy animates.

"Mum — " he rasps. "Please, Mum, they're lying — "

"Come along, Mrs Crouch," Humbugg says kindly.

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 _The memories keep on rushing. Keep on coming. Like some infinite waterfall. She turns, trying to find comfort, but the floor is cracked and cold and her mind is — well — cracked and cold, too._

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"Dose him, please."

Veritaserum is brought forth. Barty thrashes and gargles on his own spit. "No," he growls, and then the drops hit his tongue and his body relaxes. His eyes glaze over.

She turns away from that awful sight — her son so still and with his eyes clouded over.

Then come the questions: "What is your name?"

"Who are your parents?"

"How old are you?"

"Where did you go to school?"

 _Then_ come the real questions. "Who is your Master?"

"Do you align with the Dark Side?"

And then —

Then — she closes her eyes — "Are you a Death Eater?"; "Did you willingly join the Death Eaters?"; "Do you believe in Pureblood Superiority?" … and to these questions he answers _yes_ while she chants _no._

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She wonders what it would be like to die.

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"We, the Council of Magical Law, have come to a decision. Bartemius Crouch Junior, you are pronounced guilty," Bartemius Crouch Senior says.

Mrs Crouch is floating. Her husband can't have said guilty — she didn't hear him. In fact, she can't hear much of anything … except … except … the world is a blur and someone is screaming. Someone is screaming as if they're being burned, or drowned, or beaten, or —

As if their husband just murdered their son.

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"MUM, PLEASE, HELP ME — " Barty roars. "IT WASN'T ME, _I DIDN'T DO IT,_ MUM!"

"Come along, Mrs Crouch," Humbugg says.

Bartemius says nothing. She cannot even _look_ at him. She _cannot._

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She falls into some dark recess of her mind where thoughts and feelings are numb. Bartemius tries to pull her out but not even the scent of sandalwood and quality wool can comfort her, and it has always comforted her.

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 _She cries in her sleep. Cold fingers — skeletal — brush her cheeks. The memories worsen. She wants to die but she cannot find the energy to even plan death. Still. She dreams of a knife or green light, sometimes._

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One day she wakes up in her bed and she feels happy. Then she remembers.

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One day she wakes up and remembers and feels almost happy. Guilt comes rushing in.

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One day she wakes up and there is one thought in her mind and she has never felt so strong, like some great metal beast that cannot be slowed or controlled.

"Bartemius," she says, "help me."

He looks up from his coffee. He's old and grey now, as is she. Life has done this to them. "With?"

"Please," she says, and immediately he understands that she's talking about Barty.

"No," he says. The word is short and clipped.

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She follows him around the house like some pathetic mutt, yapping _please_ and yipping _barty-barty-barty._ She stares at him all the time. She writes him notes. She cries at night, involuntarily but painfully honest in her agony. She greys and ages and pushes away dinners, then lunches, then breakfasts, until she starts losing weight so rapidly she might as well be dying.

She doesn't kiss him, or smile, or dress herself. Her body starts to smell with the stench of her emotions. Bartemius watches this. Says nothing. Eventually, she says nothing either. Just watches him. He tells her, "Your silence scares me." She doesn't answer that either.

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Until —

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"If you love me — if you have ever loved me — you will do this for me." Her voice is a rasp.

He stills. He turns. Abruptly something in him cracks and he grips her. His eyes are bloodshot. _When had he started looking so ill?_ she wonders.

He swears violently — so uncouth, like those Muggles. "I did love you. I do love you."

So he helps her.

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She comes alive with purpose. Polyjuice potion is bought from Knockturn Alley and they plan late into the night. Then comes the day. The day upon which her son will finally taste freedom. Her little boy —

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Azkaban is a terrible place. The air feels brittle and the sea is an ugly, wretched thing. The walls of the prison are stained and there is an odd smell permeating everything. Her heart is beating so fast that she feels lightheaded. Every noise is sharp to her ears.

"Come on," Bartemius says. He doesn't look at her. Part of her quails at the thought that he's already distancing himself from her, as if she's already dead.

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 _She shivers and huddles into herself for warmth. Then she remembers. She mustn't forget. She can't. She grips the flask and takes a swig, but it's so difficult. Her hand is shaking and there are white explosions beneath her eyelids. She's never felt so much misery and sadness in her life. So much pain that she can't even cry. So much regret_ ("You have a baby boy, Mrs Crouch!") _that she never wants to take another breath in ever, ever again. So much grief … just …_

 _She drinks the Polyjuice potion. If she drinks it, maybe everything will be okay. She just has to —_

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"Barty!" she cries shrilly, falling to her knees. Her son — she can't even see him … his hair and beard are wild and long and tangled. He doesn't move. For a moment, she isn't living, but she isn't dead. Then he twitches. Then she breathes. She doesn't get to say goodbye, or tell him what's happening, because there is no time, and tears leak down her face. She drinks the potion. Forces him to drink his. She feels her build change, and her hair grow, and her chest shrink. Her eyesight worsens from malnutrition and when she sits on that cold floor she knows that she will die on this floor, too, but her son will live.

Her son will live.

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 _She takes in another flat gasp and then stills. She dies. She dies and there is no ceremony to it. No-one even notices. She just. Just dies. Just like that._

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At last, the memories stop. Dementors cannot tear any out from a dead woman.

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They will tell you that Lily Potter died for her son. But Lily Potter only died once. Mrs Crouch died every day that she lived for son. But no-one cares about the humanity of the enemy.

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And her name? Her name was Marie. Marie Crouch.

You remember that name.

Marie.


End file.
